


Heal my heart

by Suzelle



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Dunedain drama, F/F, Fourth Age, Gen, Healing, POV Original Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-30
Updated: 2014-09-30
Packaged: 2018-02-19 10:21:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2384861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzelle/pseuds/Suzelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A delegation of Northern Dúnedain travel to Minas Tirith, and Ioreth gets to know the new Steward of Arnor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heal my heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elleth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elleth/gifts).



Nethril stood in the doorway and read the invitation for the fourth time, making sure the finer details were etched into her memory, before she crumpled the sheaf of parchment in her hand with a frustrated growl.

“He must be joking.”

Isilmë stretched languidly on a couch across the room and propped herself up on one elbow to smirk at Nethril. “He seems quite serious to me.”

“He’s a bloody scoundrel. A stubborn, stiff-necked Dúnadan meant for no better than…”

Isilmë laughed, her eyes dancing. “Hush. I’m fairly certain even you aren’t permitted to call him such things within the city limits.”

Nethril paced impatiently before the doorway. “He promised a respite before the politics began. A few days to collect ourselves and enjoy the city.”

“For many people, I think a feast would qualify as a respite.” Isilmë was still smiling in that infuriating way she had, and Nethril reminded herself throttling one’s lover was really not the best way to start a morning.

"You know what I mean,” she snapped instead. “A feast means trading niceties with nobility, evaluating who is going to be an ally and who an enemy. Could he not just leave us to dine in peace…”

"You are the Steward of Arnor, my dear, and this is your first visit to Minas Tirith. Of course there is going to be a welcome banquet in your honor. It would be dreadful manners otherwise.”

 “Nice to know that the court cares so much about propriety. I suppose I will have to present myself alone, without you, and you will be banished off with the rest of the delegation…”

  “We knew that was going to be the case,” Isilmë reminded her. “Things are different here. They are not used to us the way they are in the Angle.”

 “They can barely get used to the idea of a female Steward,” Nethril said bitterly. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

 Isilmë sighed, and settled back deeper into the couch. “To be perfectly frank, my love, I do not care what they think of me, nor if we have to hide our relationship, so long as I get to spend the next few weeks indulging in the comforts of this place.”

 Nethril snorted. Upon arrival in Minas Tirith, Aragorn had made certain that the Dúnedain delegation had every luxury available to them. Servants had met them at the gates to take their things and direct them to the baths, and their quarters were located in the uppermost ring of the city. The gown she had chosen for the morning was a fine green velvet, and was likely the richest garment she had ever worn. It was a welcome change from weeks on the road, and indeed, was a far more lavish setting than anything she had been exposed to before, save for an all-too-brief visit to Rivendell some decades before.

 She ignored Isilmë’s questioning look and opened the doors to the balcony, running her hands over the worn marble of the railing as she stepped outside. The city gleamed bright below her, the white marble towers glinting in the morning sun, but her eyes drifted north, to the green fields that rippled slightly in the wind. Looking out at the Pelennor from this height, it was hard to believe that such a devastating battle had been fought there barely two years before. Harder still to accept that somewhere amidst the stretch of green, there was a mound raised to Halbarad, son of Dirlaeg.

 The bottom dropped out of her stomach at the thought, and she gripped the balcony railing tightly. Two years, and the grief still lingered. If she was being perfectly honest with herself, she knew she had delayed this visit in part because she did not want to face the spectre of the White City, this place from which her brother had never returned.

 Isilmë came up from behind her and wrapped her arms gently around Nethril’s waist. “It’s not just tonight, is it?” she asked. “It’s being here at all.”

 Nethril took hold of Isilmë’s hands. “You know, I was so relieved when he asked me to serve as Arnor’s Steward. I was afraid he would ask me to come to the capital with him, to have more allies from Eriador on his council. And I would have done it, had he asked, but… I would have hated it. I have no ties to Gondor. The North is my home.”

 “And that is precisely why he asked you. He knows you will defend our interests more fiercely than any other,” Isilmë gave her a fond smile. “And for this one month, it means having to speak for them in person. Then we can go home.”

 Nethril sighed. “I do not miss the days when we had to fight just to survive. But at least they were less complicated.”

 Isilmë leaned her head against Nethril’s shoulder. “Let us take it one day at a time, yes? And tonight, you do not have to do anything more difficult than smile at some dignitaries and enjoy the spoils of Aragorn’s table. And…” she traced her hands over Nethril’s gown and down her hips, “if you’re very well behaved, perhaps we can find some other ways for you to enjoy yourself afterward.”

 “Oh?” Nethril asked, smiling in spite of herself. “And how precisely do you suppose we arrange that?”

 “I can get creative, Lady Steward,” Isilmë grinned wickedly. “You must know that better than anyone.”

 ***

Nethril paused at the entrance to the banquet hall, staring out at nearly a hundred guests before she crossed the hall to greet King Elessar, formally dressed with the great crown upon his head and the green stone pinned to his breast. She bowed low before him, before he motioned for her to rise and stepped down from the great dais to draw her into an embrace.

 “You’re a scoundrel and a rogue,” she murmured in his ear. “The least you could have done was give me more than a day’s warning.”

 Aragorn grinned broadly, and kissed her on both cheeks. “I’ve missed you too, cousin.” He took her hand, gave it a reassuring squeeze, and turned to address the crowd.

 “Tonight we welcome our honored guests from the North, our kin and countrymen. Let us celebrate with food and good cheer, as a reminder of the union and strength of our two great kingdoms.” The guests raised their glasses in a toast, and the feast began. 

 Nethril was seated beside the young Steward of Gondor, Faramir, whom she found she quite liked. His wife Éowyn reminded her somewhat of a younger Isilmë, so serious and driven with purpose. Nethril drew a great deal of laughter from them both at her tales of a young Aragorn’s first years among the Dúnedain. But as the supper dishes were cleared and the evening’s entertainment began, her earlier melancholy returned, and she politely excused herself from a conversation with Prince Imrahil to slip out into the courtyard adjoining the banquet hall. She would have her work cut out for her in the council meetings she attended, that much was clear. No matter how hard Aragorn tried, it was clear that Arnor still remained all but forgotten to many, a bitter footnote in the tales of the old kings’ fall. It would be her duty as Steward to remind them that the North stood as far more than a provincial afterthought in the minds of Gondorian noblemen.

 She sighed. _If you had some of Ivorwen’s foresight, you might have seen beyond the simple goal of helping to put Aragorn on the throne. But you never thought about what part the rest of us would play in the aftermath…or that Halbarad would not live to see it…_

 She turned at the sound of footsteps to see an older woman standing at the entrance to the courtyard. She had a worn, kindly face, though for all Nethril knew, the woman could still be younger than her. She was still not quite sure if the Gondorians aged as the Northern Dunedain did.

 She smiled when Nethril turned to look at her. “I haven’t had many opportunities to enjoy the sights from the seventh level,” she said, “But I do love the chance to look up at the stars. One feels as though you could reach out and touch them, from here.”

 “It’s a rare sight,” Nethril agreed. “Minas Tirith seems to have a great deal to offer in that regard.”

 The woman smiled and approached Nethril tentatively. “I hope I’m not disturbing you, Lady Nethril. King Elessar simply asked me to come and see if everything was all right.”

 “Of course he did,” she sighed, and patted the empty spot beside her on the bench. “You’re very kind, Lady…”

 “Ioreth,” the woman supplied. “But I am no ‘Lady,’ mistress. I work in the Houses of Healing, here in the city.”

 Nethril blinked in surprise. “So you are Ioreth? It is an honor to meet you. Aragorn has told me much of your skills and deeds.”

 Ioreth’s eyes widened. “He mentioned me to you? The king? Good gracious.”

 “He would be greatly remiss, if he hadn’t,” Nethril smiled. “You are the one who reminded him of his birthright, are you not? When he came in from battle. ‘The hands of a king are the hands of a healer’…”

 “Oh, but that’s no reason to go on about me. I am a simple healer, nothing more…”

 “And I am a simple Dúnadan,” Nethril countered. “And yet the king sees fit to subject us to…all this.” She gestured helplessly back toward the banquet hall, where most of the guests still sat, talking and laughing.

 Ioreth chuckled. “Nonsense. You are the king’s first family. If he misses you in the way I miss my kinswomen, then it is no surprise that he put this all together for you.”

 Nethril gave a rueful smile.

 “You remind me of my cousin, actually,” the healer-woman continued. “Never wants a fuss made over her, even when she comes all the way from Imloth Melui to the city. The last time she visited me was for King Elessar’s coronation, and she wouldn’t stand for any finery. ’Now, Ioreth,’ she said, ‘I won’t have you putting together any feasts on my account. Leave such things to the king, not to me…’”

 Nethril listened to Ioreth chatter, moving on from talk of her cousin to her sisters and other family she had left behind in her homeland. It was soothing, in a way, to listen to tales of family squabbles that so greatly mirrored her own.

 “What made you leave Lossarnach?” she asked at last, when Ioreth paused to take a breath.

 “Beg pardon, my lady?”

 “What made you come to Minas Tirith? It sounds as if most of your family remained behind in Imloth Melui.”

 “Oh, that they did. But there were no great healers in our valley, not the way there are here. Oh, there were plenty of midwives, and enough healers that I learned the basic craft, but no one truly learned in the arts. The great masters all practiced in the healing houses in Minas Tirith. I knew that, and I longed to learn more. My mother knew it too. ’Tis the only reason she consented for me to leave. ‘You have a gift, Ioreth, and you must use it,’ she said. ‘I can hardly keep you tethered here forever, much as I might wish it were so…’”

 “That takes a great deal of conviction, to leave your home and all you know for such a purpose,” Nethril murmured. “What made you so certain that healing was your path?”

 Ioreth looked slightly taken aback at the question.

 “I suppose…I suppose I always knew it was what I wanted to do. Ever since I was a child, and would see the healers work miracles on those in our valley who were ill, I wanted to learn how to do that myself, to help the people who needed it. And well, with the war and all that came with it…I wanted to do all I could. Healing was the best way.”

 Nethril nodded slowly. “My grandmother told me something similar once. She was a healer as well. She was the primary keeper of our healing lore, after the death of the Chieftains. I think she was always disappointed that I never followed in her footsteps, though she never said it aloud.”

 “You trained to be a healer?” Ioreth asked.

 “For a little while. My heart was never truly in it. There was…there was a man. They brought him in when I helping my grandmother. He had been ravaged by wolves, and there was nothing…” Nethril trailed off, lost in the memory, and shook her head. “I was too young. We all start our training too young, in the North.”

 “There is never a good age to see such things,” Ioreth shook her head.

 “My grandmother dedicated her life to giving hope to the people,” Nethril continued. “But the older I got, the more losses we endured…I could not help but ask myself what healing there was for those like the man killed by wolves? What of those who never make it back?”

 “You do all you can,” Ioreth said simply. “And stay with them until then end. That is as much of a healer’s charge as anything else.”

 Nethril did not reply, lost in thought.

 “And if you will forgive my forwardness, my lady, it is likely just as well you didn’t set yourself on the path to healing. You do the world far more good serving the King as Steward, at least from this old woman’s point of view.”

 Nethril smiled. “I can see why Aragorn likes you.”

 “Oh, I don’t imagine he thinks much about me at all, my lady,” Ioreth smiled. “If kings and the like started paying attention to the common folk, why, they’d have no time to govern the country at all. It’s strange enough that the king comes down to the Houses of Healing on occasion, though we appreciate it just the same. Mind you, he’s called only for the most serious cases, those that baffle even the herb-master. Why, I thought for sure I had lost one young lad last week, but they called for Elessar, and he brought the boy back from the brink of death. The hands of a healer, indeed…”

 Ioreth continued on, and Nethril listened with a soft smile, lost in half-forgotten memories of the soft voices of the healers of the Angle. _Perhaps it is time you stopped thinking of Gondor as being so different,_ she chided herself gently. 

 “Would you mind terribly if I came by your healing houses, Ioreth?” she asked. “I imagine it would feel a bit like home.”

 Ioreth patted her hand. “Please, Lady Nethril. Come by anytime.”

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my betas, who will be revealed when the authors are!


End file.
